Pie In The Sky
by Roulade
Summary: It all starts when Jason wakes up in his bed in Wayne Manor, a kid again, and struggles with the thought that everything about him—his life and death, and life again—was nothing but one horribly long, very bad dream.
1. Sleep Well, Bad Dreams

**Chapter 1 - Sleep Well, Bad Dreams**

Jason startled awake and for a long moment his mind drew blank. He laid still, waiting for the aching pounding of his heart to calm from whatever horrors he had dreamed about, but the familiar surroundings—his bed, his desk, his shelf of trinkets and books, because they were all his, right?—didn't seem to have any effect on him. In fact, the sight somehow made him feel even more sick, wrong, and Jason sat up weakly in his bed trying to catch his breath as if he had just run ten laps around the manor. He glanced around the dark room wondering when he had cleaned his clothes off the floor, and wasn't that the stupidest thing to think about given he how he felt like shit at the moment, and _shitshitshit_ _I'm having a fucking heart attack_. His whole body contracted in on itself and all he could do was sit stiffly, hunched over the nauseatingly fresh bed sheets and fearfully wait for his stomach to upturn itself.

At some point, the bedroom door swung open silently, spilling a crack of light across the floor. Jason's pulse was pounding in his head and he didn't even acknowledge as a silhouette slipped in. After a pause, the shadow seemed to notice Jason's predicament with a remarked, "Oh dear..."

Cautiously moving to his side (the word _carefully_ didn't seem right, as with everything else in that moment), the figure leaned towards him but kept a distance, making sure not to crowd his space.

"Master Jason," Alfred started. Jason noticed how the old butler's watery eyes were surrounded by more worried wrinkles than normal. "No matter what terrors you see, no matter what shadows you fear, I promise that you are _safe_."

Jason could almost believe that, so he let the earnestness in the older man's voice comfort him a little. He said nothing though, not trusting his voice to stay under his control through his suffocating gasps for air because there just wasn't enough of it in the too small room and Jason couldn't fucking breathe. The elderly man took a handkerchief and gently dabbed the sweat from his forehead before it dripped into his eyes.

His ears felt bloated, hearing echoes of nothing as if his head was submerged in water, and Alfred's voice echoed to him distantly when he continued, "If you would follow my lead, Master Jason—take a slow breath and hold for a pause before exhaling, long and slow on my count. Understood, sir?" Jason nodded his head weakly in response. "Very good, now breathe in—"

Jason took in a sharp, stuttering breath, too quickly.

"Hold—"

The muscles in his throat tightened compulsively, but he was already letting go like an untied balloon before Alfred commanded, "Exhale... five... four... three..."

And Jason was back to hyperventilating again, looking wearily at the butler as if to say, _I'm a lost cause._

"No need to be disheartened, sir. We shall try again, as many times as is necessary. You will be all right." Alfred gave him a worried, but reassuring squeeze of his shoulder.

Half an hour later, Jason was finally breathing on his own with some semblance of control, his wracked body feeling like a well-beaten sandbag and his head throbbing. His muscles had uncoiled themselves and the pulsing in his ears had stopped. Alfred poured a glass of water from the pitcher next to the bed and handed it to him along with a sleeping pill.

"Thanks, Al," Jason croaked, grateful for the offer of mind-numbing sleep as he took the glass and pill with small hands. He swallowed the drug and downed the water in nearly a single gulp, feeling the cool liquid relieve his parched throat.

"You are very welcome, sir. Now, I believe it is due time you retired for the night."

Jason didn't protest when the butler took his empty glass and tucked the blankets comfortably around him as he lay back down. Satisfied that Jason was settled in, Alfred straightened his posture to take his leave.

As Alfred turned around, Jason had a sudden, irrational fear of being left alone in his familiar room with his familiar things that didn't seem to comfort him at all. He hesitated before quickly muttering under his breath, "Will you wake me up if I have bad dreams again?"

Alfred froze, eyes widening slightly in surprise.

Jason squirmed nervously under the butler's appalled gaze and he almost wanted to ask, _what's wrong?_ before he regretted the silly question from ever leaving his mouth. He still felt uncomfortable about sharing his demons openly, as if speaking of the blood, the pain, and death would make them real. Even if his most vaguely recent nightmare had been one of the worst he had ever had, Jason wasn't a snot-nosed baby that needed to be coddled. Yet, as much as Jason learned to rely on himself since he was practically in diapers, a small part of him acknowledged the kind butler's attentive care and consideration while intuitively respecting his privacy, never lecturing him or raising a hand at Jason's unhealthy habits, like stashing junk food in his closet, or going to bed with the same clothes he'd worn during the day—even Jason's smoking habit, although he was currently trying to quit cold turkey for the other's sake. It meant a lot to Jason that Alfred was patient with him (because Jason wholly and sincerely wanted to change), and knew deep down that he could grow to trust the elderly man as a friend—someday. Jason figured all he needed was to give the butler a chance.

So when the man regarded Jason's brief moment of vulnerability in surprise, Jason felt relieved that the glistening at the corners of his aging eyes wasn't a trick of the light, and neither were they filled with pity.

Alfred regarded his young charge fondly, one hand patting his arm underneath the covers and another giving a gentle caress through his hair, an uncharacteristic break in his usual distant politeness.

"... Always, Master Jason. Always." he hushed quietly.

At the door, he turned around once again as if to make sure Jason was still safely where he should be and gave one last smile.

"Sleep well, Master Jason."

Jason closed his eyes and felt himself drifting into unconsciousness. He slept like the dead until morning.

* * *

 **A/N:** This is a cross-post with an ongoing story I've been writing on AO3. Since I've had this account for so long, I figured I would upload my updated chapters here. For those of you who are interested and want to read more, I upload under my other pseud: smleeish.


	2. Words Unspoken

**Chapter 2 - Words Unspoken**

In the morning, Alfred finds Jason already out of bed, washed and changed out of his pajamas.

The boy had found his clothes neatly folded in the dresser, courtesy of the resident butler, and so he decided to take a quick shower to wash away the tension from last night before getting changed. When Jason pulled on his favorite hooded sweater (a gift from his first Christmas at the manor), he noted how it fit loosely on his shoulders, like a well-worn garment that had seen one too many laundry baskets. It worried him a little, but favorite clothes always tend to darn out faster than others, just like the old set of clothes he used to wear while living in Park Row—except on the streets you didn't have the luxury of making favorites and the clothes on your back were all you had, whether you liked them or not.

Although Alfred had prepared to serve Jason breakfast in bed, Jason insisted on eating downstairs. Having already eaten his breakfast by sunrise, the butler stood at attention by Jason's side while the boy dug hungrily into his plate. Table manners were obviously not his forte and Jason was maybe a little apologetic for that fact towards the butler as he shoveled eggs and sausages into his gaping mouth. Alfred, however, strangely had no comments for his messy eating habits this morning and Jason figured it was his stoic way of showing he cared after his ordeal last night, letting him get away with a familiar habit.

The thing about poverty and food is that you never know when your next hot meal will be, so Jason had seen the habit countless times, learned it himself, how to scarf down as much as necessary, as quickly as possible, since there were other equally important things you could be doing at that moment— like stealing wheels off a car, so you can earn some cash, so you can pay for that next, hot meal. Jason was still getting used to the whole idea of _not_ having to stash things away, of having a fridge the size of a walk-in closet plus a fully-stocked cellar and pantry at his disposal.

After having his plate refilled for a second helping and letting his mind wander contently, he somehow couldn't ignore the massive chair at the head of the table any longer. It loomed expectantly at him, the figurative elephant in the room you couldn't miss. And it was so very _empty_.

"Hey Alfred, where's... Bruce?" Jason asked.

There was a subtle hesitation, then the older man answered, "... Master Bruce is preoccupied with important matters at the moment. But rest assured, he intends to see you as soon as he is released from his duties."

And _that_ was a textbook answer as far as Jason could tell. Jason had figured out early on that there were few things in the world that could ruffle the old butler's feathers (when your master dresses up as a giant bat and flies over rooftops at night fighting crime, there wasn't much else in the world that could take you by surprise), but Jason didn't miss the unnecessary pause and the slight wrinkle that formed between his graying eyebrows. Jason was good at reading people like that.

"When's he coming back?" he asked.

"Perhaps within the next week or so."

"What's he working on?"

"The usual. Contracts, meetings, site supervision…"

"So, you're telling me he's not working on a _case_?"

The butler paused again. _Strike two_ , thought Jason. Not like he had any scores to settle with the butler, but you never know when you're a pint-sized brat trying to live in a world of adults, and by now it had become another bad habit, if anything. Keeping track of your wins and losses (one point for the successful shoplift, minus one for the loss of your hidden cache that was looted by another thief) eventually becomes a measuring stick for survival. Obviously, survival had long since been taken out of the equation for Jason ever since he was adopted by multi-billionaire Bruce Wayne, but as the old saying goes, _old habits die hard_. And either way, it was plain as day that the butler had something to hide when the other man clammed up momentarily at the mention of Bruce.

"... You are interested in partaking in some of your own detective work, I assume?" Alfred inquired composedly and raised an eyebrow in his direction, catching on to Jason's obvious sleuthing.

"Oh, you know me, Alfie, always eager to please. Figured I'd get a head-start and practice my deductive skills on an actual case before Bruce gets back." Jason replied smartly and flashed him a well-practiced, innocent smile.

"Well, I see no harm in a little exercise of the mind, but you will not be working cases of any sort while under my watch. Do I make myself clear?"

"Stingy."

" _Clear_ , sir?"

"As my arteries after that deliciously healthy breakfast."

Alfred gave him possibly the most patronizing stare ever made in the history of glares. Jason squirmed uncomfortably under that look (so that's where the Batman learned the _batglare_ ). Reluctantly, he grumbled, "... _Fine_."

Satisfied with his answer, Alfred promptly cleared the table. Jason, however, slunk down into his chair with a content stomach and a disappointed pout on his lips.

"Guess that means we're doing chores like normal people today?"

* * *

Much to Jason's chagrin, the rest of the morning consisted of dish washing, laundry, house cleaning, laundry, kitchen duty, and more _laundry_. Did he mention he hated doing laundry? Granted most of the clothes and bedsheets were his so he probably shouldn't be complaining, yet there were a lot of "his" belongings mixed in that he didn't even know were his to begin with. Coming from a humble background of a one-room apartment with a single mattress and nothing but the clothes on your back, the idea of having more than two of the same thing with extras to spare still bewildered him beyond words. Jason dumped hamper after hamper into the washers and rid himself of the headache-inducing colors as quickly as possible.

Since it was an especially warm, sunny afternoon, Alfred soon sent Jason outdoors to drape the linens and clothes on an elaborate setup of hanging wires. By this point, Jason was too mentally and physically drained to protest and Alfred thought the fresh air would do the boy some good. Alfred wouldn't realize until later, when he found a yard full of haphazardly hung sheets but undeniably empty of his young charge, that perhaps the fresh air had worked a little too well.

By the time Alfred realized he was gone, Jason had already covered quite a bit of ground, the vast acres of Wayne manor reduced to the size of a grape when he looked back from where he was steadily trudging up the deserted road leading away from the upper class suburbs into downtown Gotham. Although it probably wasn't that long ago since he had moved into the household, the memory of his first drive up this very road, turning off at the inconspicuous path leading onto the cliffs, then the cave... it all seemed like a blur, a lifetime ago. It surprisingly made him feel vulnerable and so _alone_... Or maybe he was just feeling sorry about ditching Alfred's watchful eyes and missing his company already.

 _Pfft yeah right,_ Jason thought, he'll probably feel less sappy and nostalgic after two chili dogs and a soda, and he knew exactly which hot dog stand in Gotham would give him free chili dogs in exchange for a clever joke and a cheap magic trick or two.

When Jason crested the hill, he was greeted by a clear view of Gotham City in all its concrete glory. He had to scoff a little at how the polluted, golden afternoon glow gave the rusted piers, weathered bridges, the gothic skyscrapers mixed in with the glint of glass high-rises, and murky inlets, a refreshing, pretty sheen, masking the filth underneath. He didn't need to see it to imagine where the infested corners of Crime Alley were nestled underneath, a beacon of familiarity only he could see. It wasn't homesickness—that shit-hole of a place was never a home—but it was the cesspit he was born in, a place where he could channel his anger into something productive, the place where he was beaten regularly by gang members and a drunken father, where his mother had died while a head trip took her somewhere better—

Jason's stream of thoughts suddenly froze to halt at the ghostly image of his mother. Was that _his_ mother he had just thought of, or... someone else? Sure he was just a toddling brat when his mother had died, but somehow, Jason could only bring to mind a tear-streaked, blank face hanging in a noose and the disgusted scowl of another, burning embers of a cigarette flashing in and out of focus between the swaying of a crowbar...

Despite the gentle breeze, Jason shivered. Bad dreams. That's all they were. He crouched down and tried to hug the warmth back into his body.

Jason probably would have sat like that at the side of the road until sundown if a motorcyclist hadn't riden by a few moments later, zooming past him on the otherwise empty road towards Gotham Heights and the upperclass district. It wasn't even a minute later before the rider was backtracking and pulling up slowly next to him. The man sat idle on his bike for a while as if not knowing whether he should bother him or not, before nudging the kickstand out with his boot and dismounting the motorcycle.

"You ok, kid?"

The man's voice was muffled as he crouched down beside Jason, peering at him through the tinted visor of his helmet.

" _Yeah, I'm good._ " Jason replied immediately. Not wanting to look like some poor pedestrian in need of assistance (or for some shady passerby to take advantage of), Jason sprang to his feet too quickly then almost keeled over from the sudden loss of blood to his brain. Luckily the man caught him before he could smash his face on the ground.

"Easy there, little guy. No ones gonna hurt you."

" _Huh_ , like you won't? And don't call me that." He smacked the man's hands away.

"What? You mean, _little_?" The man said, chuckling and raising his hands in mock innocence. Jason might as well be staring at the amused smirk on his face behind the helmet. "How old are you, kid?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Jason quipped back. With the butler's absence, he was quickly getting back into the swing of his usual smart-ass attitude.

The man hummed. "I would. But, I think it's obvious that kindergarteners shouldn't be wandering around without their parents, especially in Gotham."

"Do I _look_ like a thumb-sucking baby, to you? I can look after myself." Jason jutted his chin out defiantly and the helmet tilted almost in curiosity, unswayed by the kid's tough-guy act.

It suddenly became a pointless staring competition, but Jason was the type to never back down from a potential threat, so after a whole ten minutes when Jason accidentally blinked and gave in to his compulsion to fidget, he turned away and berated himself for losing. " _Fuck_."

The man was laughing now, the kind that seemed to release all the built up tension between strangers. He pulled off his helmet, brushing a sweaty curtain of black hair away from his blue eyes.

"You better watch your potty mouth around Alfred, Little Wing. What are you doing out here by your lonesome self anyways?"

Unimpeded by the mask of the helmet, Jason now recognized the voice. He'd heard it many times while watching security playbacks of the original Dynamic Duo, albeit with a slightly higher pitched, youthful tone. Thus, the face looked familiar, although he had never actually met the man in person (except possibly in his nightmares... But Jason wasn't eager to open that can of worms right now). He had only ever seen him on video as a boy in a colorful, acrobatic uniform and a domino mask, skillfully weaving about and cracking down on criminals twice his size. However, without a doubt, it was him. Dick Grayson. The hero whom he had idolized for as long as he could remember. The _original_ Boy Wonder.

 _Robin_.

Needless to say, Jason was shocked into silence, unsure of what to make of the sudden appearance of his idol and predecessor.

Dick continued, "Hm, I guess Al's losing his touch, letting you sneak out right under his nose."

Jason gaped. "How did you— Why are you— _you_ —"

"I'm—Dick Grayson— motorcycle— Bludhaven—"

"Ha ha, very funny, _Dick_." Jason retorted, finding his voice in annoyance at the young man's teasing tone.

"I try," Dick shrugged. "Circus kid, remember?"

"Yeah, sure I do."

The two of them stared at each other, then after a moment, Jason figured he liked the snarky attitude (even if he seemed a lot older than the four or five-year difference that was supposed to be between them) and let his mouth break into a crooked smile.

"Y'know, you're not half bad. For a guy who gave up Robin, that is."

Dick scratched his chin at the comment and agreeably smirked back. "That was a pretty stupid move on my part, huh? But I hear the one who took up the mantle after me w—is a much better partner than I ever was. Why don't you tell me about him?"

Dick left his motorcycle parked on the shoulder of that deserted road and the two of them started off down the hill towards the streets of Gotham, walking side-by-side. Every now and then, the former Robin would nod along and answer attentively as Jason chatted the whole way— he couldn't resist the chance to show off the tricks he'd been practicing in preparation to become the next Robin.

* * *

The sky was a fiery red by the time the black Rolls-Royce pulled up next to the park. The place was small, grungy, covered in graffiti and rundown, but it was evident the local city services did their best to keep public areas like these clean of needles and garbage despite the sad reality that the waste had a way of returning overnight. There were smoky clouds and a blinding blast of light from the setting sun reminiscent of certain foggy images in his head, but at the moment, Jason couldn't care less.

As Alfred stepped out of the driver's seat, he was greeted by the sight of Dick and Jason racing side by side in the middle of a complex obstacle course all across the entire empty playground. Jason was swinging through the monkey bars at an unbelievable speed while Dick lagged behind by a few paces. After somersaulting through a wall of upright tires, the two contestants sprinted for the swings where they leaped onto the rubber loops and began to swing violently back and forth with their feet digging into the seats and hands gripping the chains tightly.

"No cheating— this time!— If you grab my— swing again, I'll—" Jason huffed between breaths with an animated grin on his face as he swung higher and higher.

"No worries, Little Wing. I'm all for playing fair and square!" Dick called back cheerfully, if not dishonestly.

Alfred opened the passenger door and let the well-dressed man inside step out onto the sidewalk. As he closed the door behind him, Alfred realized he had never seen such a carefree, sincerely happy look on Jason's face before. Jason had always been a reserved boy, quick to anger, impulsive, defensive, a child who took his obligations too seriously, whether it be looking after a dying mother at the age of three, standing up in opposition when he sees an unjust cause, or training to become someone who could save innocent people _from_ those unjust causes. He was a child who hid his insecurities with snarky comments, laughed off his problems for the sake of other's troubles, and bit the head off of anyone who dared to come too close— a child forced to fill the shoes of an adult by the hardships of life, but valued his morals all the more for it.

And as Alfred and his companion knew all too well, for all the good that selfless altruism could do, it was a double-edged sword—Jason's scars ran deep with one too many cuts of his own sword, scars that the two men wished they had paid closer attention to before.

Dick tackled Jason to the ground as they raced towards the giant alder tree at the other side of the park, tickling him into submission. Jason was freely laughing now, loud and exuberantly like a normal boy, without any smart-mouthed wisecracks, or the sarcastic, agitated remarks on the side; he was laughing, he was happy and full of energy, not for someone else or because he had to be—he was happy being _Jason_. It was such a normal thing, a foreign concept that Jason could be unconditionally happy like any other child, that Alfred was shocked to find his eyesight suddenly blurred by tears.

His companion placed a strong hand on Alfred's shoulder reassuringly, understanding the emotion that had gripped the butler in that moment. Leaving Alfred to wait patiently by the car, the other man strode through the patched grass towards the duo as they wrestled on the open field. Jason had Dick on his back, locked in a perfect straight arm bar, but Dick was somehow unconcernedly laughing (more like choking) at his own predicament.

He stopped without a word, standing as close as he dared without interrupting the two, but Dick noticed the other presence immediately. The young man shot up to his feet in an instant, Jason's legs still wrapped around his neck and hanging off his arm, koala-like.

"Uh—hey, Bruce. Fancy seeing you here..." Dick trailed off as he shamefully scratched the back of this neck with his free hand and Jason dropped to the ground, staring at his feet like they were the most interesting thing in the world.

Bruce raised an eyebrow at Dick. "Likewise. Hello, Jason," he said and turned pointedly to the boy, but Jason didn't meet his eyes, still frowning intently at his shoelaces.

"Hey, Bruce." A quiet voice muttered to no one in particular.

There was a painfully abrupt pause where the three of them stood stock still, neither making the first move, and the smile slowly faded from Dick's face. Bruce looked at Jason forlornly, Jason looked frustratedly at his toes, and Dick looked intensely from one to the other as if he could close the gap that suddenly opened between all three of them.

Unable to stand the silence anymore, Dick opened his mouth to break the ice when both older men jumped in surprise by the sudden outburst of, "I didn't mean to run off like that just wanted a chili dog Dick was cool with it so I thought 'what the heck' but I won't do it again so please please _please_ don't fire me I'm really _really_ sorry!"

"... You're sorry..." Bruce echoed slowly, taking a moment to process the spew of words.

Jason averted his eyes and sucked on his lip, hesitantly. "You're probably mad that I flew the coop like that, otherwise Al wouldn't have bothered you just to come find me. Figure I should warn you, I tend to run off on a whim, y'know, follow my own instincts? And it's probably too late to change things, I'm not so sure I can be like Dickie boy and stick to the rules, so if you're having second thoughts about hiring me for the job, I don't blame you for i—"

He was abruptly cut off when Bruce knelt down and pulled him into a tight embrace. Dick stood on the side, quietly watching over the two and no one noticed as Alfred wiped away at his eyes with a handkerchief on the other side of the park.

Eyes wide, his whole body froze in that instant, Jason stood there dumbly with his feet lifted slightly off the ground by the strong, but gentle arms that encircled him. Such outward affection was a completely foreign idea to him, and for it to come seemingly out of _nowhere_ from his strict mentor of all people—for once, he had no words to fill the awkward moment, and he could only wonder why Dick was just as quiet.

"I'm not mad at you. I never was," Bruce finally said, and there were several layers of emotions in those words that Jason couldn't understand half of. "Please, don't ever think you mean less to me than Dick, or Gotham, or the _job_. You don't need to be Robin to have a place here. You don't need to prove anything to me. You've _always_ had a home with us, Jason."

Jason mentally cursed when he felt his eyes water and didn't know why. It's not like he had ever felt neglected in his life or had ever hoped that someone would care enough to miss him if Jason Todd, the orphaned street kid, ever disappeared off the face of the earth. He was a realist, he understood his place in the world rolling around in the muck, scrapping with other rats for the leftovers of the more fortunate and to be honest, he never once believed he would live long enough past his teenage years to even try and _be_ something else. He knew better than to put his hopes up for that pie in the sky you stare at every day, miles above your head where you could never reach to have a taste of. But for some impossible, inexplicable reason, Jason had just been force-fed an entire piece of that pie, and the only thought his addled brain could process now was how _good_ it was, how he felt so undeserving, and _how had he ever lived without this until now?_

Since his arms were trapped by the large arms surrounding him tightly, Jason closed his eyes and wiped his face on the broad shoulder his head was leaning on. A large, calloused hand came up to brush through his hair in response. Bruce picked Jason up with ease, letting him squirm to free an arm and clutch his shoulder without another word. And with Dick close behind, they walked back towards Alfred and the car, waiting to take them all home.

* * *

In an apartment building across the street from the empty park, the illegible sounds of a television floated through the open window on the fifth floor while the black Rolls-Royce disappeared down the darkening street. The suite's tenant, surrounded by empty beer bottles and chip bags, had passed out on the couch to the drone of the news anchor as she relayed the day's latest events.

 _"—In world news today, there has been a sudden spike in reported missing persons from all across the globe. Interpol and The United Nations have already begun investigations while many are left wondering—are these disappearances connected? Is there a new human trafficking organization at large? Could extra-terrestrials be involved? No comments from the JLA on the matter as of yet, however, we expect to see a public announcement by their representatives soon. Also in current events, biologists report that crucial biomes are approaching dangerous levels of collapse in major reserves in Africa, as well as…"_

* * *

 **A/N:** The current story is at Chapter 15 right now and is certainly far from finished, but I'm wondering if I should take my time in releasing these updated chapters here so that it doesn't catch up too quickly. What do you guys think? Everyone loves them cliff-hangers, am I right? *obnoxious wink*

On a side note, I should probably mention now that this story has canon elements to it, but I'm not a regular comic book reader so some facts might seem iffy. There are quite a few characters slated to make an appearance as the story progresses, even though I might not know much about their history (but I try my best to research them!)

Cheers


	3. Fool's Gold

**Chapter 3 - Fool's Gold**

Bruce kept his word in the weeks that followed.

There was no intensive martial arts or strength and conditioning training, no classes on forensic lab techniques, no lectures on criminology and the justice system; there wasn't even math homework for him to do since Bruce still hadn't enrolled him into school yet (not that Jason was complaining). Instead, every day was a surprisingly ordinary routine; Alfred would wake him up for breakfast, he'd say goodbye to Bruce before he went to work at the office, then wander off to tinker around with one of the old cars in the garage. It was a prototype _Lamborghini Countach_ from the 1980's that Bruce had promised to give him one day, although Jason couldn't recall when exactly they had made that little deal. When Jason had inquired about the promise and the car one morning at breakfast, a strange look passed briefly over Bruce's face, but he easily replied saying all the tools were in the storage and to ask for help if he needed it, then left him to his own devices. After that, Jason spent a lot of time in the garage and he found that tinkering with the car and the smell of engine oil helped him forget that look on Bruce's face when he asked the question in the first place. He didn't want to read too much into it, and so he let his easily distracted nine-year-old mind take the reigns.

Dick was still crashing at the manor in his old room and would disappear sometimes (as did Alfred) to do whatever retired sidekicks do in their free time. Sometimes he would hangout with Jason and show him some gymnastics moves in the manor's private gymnasium (all of which Jason smugly perfected after only one or two tries on shaky limbs, although Dick seemed unsurprised at the fact), or sit and watch a movie with him in the theatre room. But, apart from their civilian activities during the day, Jason knew that the reason the ex-Robin, and Bruce as well, would slip away at the same time after dinner was to go patrolling over rooftops just as the sun dipped below the horizon and Gotham welcomed the darkness with open arms.

Jason couldn't help but feel a little pissed off at being left out of the loop, which he mentally argued would be him out there watching Bruce's back if only the man would let him train. Bruce had told him that day in the park that being Robin, being perfect like Dick Grayson, _the Golden Boy_ , were irrelevant to how important he was to Bruce. But once he recovered from the emotional shock of those words several days later, Jason was left wondering—what made _him_ so special, the exception to the mission, a dime-a-dozen orphan with no talents to offer? What was his purpose for being there at all?

The questions tormented him, kept him awake through the nights, haunted by dark thoughts and angry whispers that grew intensely, more lucid, in the passing weeks. Keeping his promise, Alfred would diligently appear by his side and comfort him through those moments until the visions of broken limbs and flashes of gun powder subsided. As the pain in his chest slowly dissipated, the last detail that would always cross his mind was Bruce's pointed absence and he would scold himself for expecting anything more of the man who adopted him. Not that Jason didn't appreciate the old butler's kindness, or Bruce's subtle concern for his privacy, but he hated the idea of being a needy charity case, starved for attention— his pride had taken enough of an beating as is, especially after Bruce's confession at the park. And no matter how much he thought he was driving himself up the wall, letting the affection and unconditional care of these _strangers_ comfort the abused pup they'd taken off the streets, staying on this _side_ of the wall was still important.

Because that's what they were, after all. Strangers.

Jason knew his world, his sense of security, would come crumbling apart if he thought of them as anything else otherwise (Jason called that feeling the 'F' word, yes, with a capital F, and no, it did not stand for his favorite swear word, and no, it wasn't ' _Friends_ ' either). After all, there was just enough crazy on the other side of his carefully made boundaries to put him on edge like that.

And then morning would come and the ghost of red masks and laughing clowns would fade into the receding darkness, while Jason would find himself back at square one, content with living in this ambiguous comfort, content as is despite the regular nightmares. Then, he would get up and start another grueling day of not-training-to-become-the-next-Robin.

He should have known his happy charade wouldn't last.

Everything went to shit when Dick caught sight of him coming out of the shower one night with fresh, red scars over his ribs (which were definitely not crushed, splintered, broken) scabbed over from the many times he'd dug his nails into the flesh along his sides and drawing blood, just to make sure they were still in one piece. He realized then that the façade of normalcy he'd tried so hard to protect himself with was blown out the window. The next thing he knew, Bruce was kneeling in front of him with hands gently squeezing his shoulders (as if that would reassure him) and talking to him about seeing a doctor. A fucking _shrink_.

But that's not what Jason wanted. That's not what he _needed_. And no matter how hard he tried to stress that point to Bruce, or Alfred, or even Dick, they all seemed to be in agreement that this was for the best. _Yeah, the best for you if it gives you peace of mind, but not me, not a fucking chance_ , Jason thought.

So on the day when the doctor would arrive at the manor for his appointment, Jason tactfully made himself scarce.

"I assure you, Master Jason, there is absolutely no need for these shenanigans..."

Pranks were the last thing on his mind right now, although he took a moment to consider his options. Well, maybe next time. He would probably give away his position and that would be playing right into the cunning butler's hands.

"Come on Jay, trust me, there's nothing to be afraid of. Doctors aren't so bad. They help you get better when you're hurt..."

He wasn't afraid. And he obviously wasn't hurt. His body was in one piece and the scars were just there so he could be absolutely _sure_.

"Please, Jason. I understand you may be strong enough to handle things on your own, but I— _we_ just want to help. Please..."

 _Please, I can help you. I know what happened._ Jason was sure that was the gist of what Bruce wanted say (or maybe he's heard the same words somewhere before). But, did Bruce know what it feels like to have your wrist broken by your own father? To hear your mother suffocate in her sleep from a cocaine overdose (or see her watching you with cold eyes as your skull was cracked open like an egg)? To feel your almost-real organs burst like water balloons in the heat-pressurized center of an explosion, night after night? Bruce probably thought the stray he'd adopted out of pity was some kind of mental case, infected with a fatal disease. _Rabid_. Jason watched unapologetic as the three adults who had taken him under their wing passed below his carefully selected hiding place, one after the other.

Jason closed the door trap quietly and moved to sit in a dark corner of the dusty attic, where every item, every antique that had once stood proudly in the halls of the manor, but was deemed too precious to put on auction, was stowed away when their owners had passed on. There was a story here of the generations of Waynes that had once inhabited the very same walls, including Bruce's own parents, which is why Jason was sure this would be the last place he would look to find him. The memory of Bruce taking him to this attic to find an old book Jason had wanted to read, but not climbing up the ladder himself, spoke volumes on the man's aversion to this place. Too many memories to drown in.

After dozing and browsing through the priceless collection of oil paintings, phonographs and other outdated technologies, the feeling of being suffocated in the dark forced Jason to shuffle over to the round window that looked out with a brilliant view of the bay and coastline of Gotham harbour. He carefully weedled the rusted latch out of its lock and heaved the window open, stiff on its hinges.

Although the window opening was narrow, Jason was skinny enough to squeeze through and safely dropped onto the roof. Given the enormous size of the building, navigating the ledges and various rooftops was like a maze. He took a wrong turn several times, but Jason was agile and wanted to make it to his destination before his pursuers stepped back inside from greeting the visitor he spotted walking up the long driveway (a man in a trench coat and not the old, female doctor that Jason had been expecting).

Using a set of dentistry tools he'd found in the attic, Jason was able to unlock the window and slip into the study with the old grandfather clock. Once inside, Jason quickly stacked several thick books in front of the clock as a makeshift stool and twisted the arms of the clock's face to read _10:47_. The clock opened to reveal the hidden entrance that lay behind.

He stepped into the darkness and didn't look back.

* * *

The first time Jason had been in the batcave, he remembered almost peeing his pants in exhilaration.

It shouldn't have been that long ago, but he honestly couldn't remember _how long_ , so for a moment he lost himself in nostalgia of the dim darkness, its mouldy, damp smell, the distant echo of chirping bats and running water. The cavern opened up as he descended the staircase into a vast cave that stretched for nearly a mile in all directions, continuing on for who-knows-where. Needless to say, it was jaw-dropping in sheer size, and yet still managed to overflow with all of the Batman's secrets in every corner (and Jason expected nothing less. Bruce was _the_ Batman after all); secrets including the world's most advanced supercomputer, an entire armory of state-of-the-art weapons and vehicles, and a fully equipped training facility, medical bay, and laboratory.

In short, the cave was practically a military stronghold, a testament to Batman's war on crime. It was Jason's pride in the cause—that they were helping to make sure no other kid would have to suffer at the hands of crime and abuse thanks to his and Batman's work— that made him wonder why Gotham's Dark Knight had the unusual habit of collecting "trophies" amongst his stash of secrets?

Despite his disapproval, Jason found himself walking through the gallery in a daze, staring longer than necessary at the colorful collection of things he shouldn't have known the significance of (but the voice in his head told him otherwise). A robotic T-Rex from a safari full of mechanized dinosaurs. A giant penny which had crushed the criminal of its namesake. The diary of an investigator who discovered the Batman's identity. Then Jason felt a familiar coldness wash over him when he saw the collection of joker cards, the exaggerated caricatures drawn in a permanent, toothy grin and the echo of chirping bats suddenly sounded like laughter and screaming.

He tore his eyes away with some difficulty (he felt the urge to scream or laugh with the bats above him, not that it would make a difference, but wouldn't that just be all sorts of inappropriate?), when suddenly the next row of cases froze him on the spot. Or, what was inside _one_ of the cases in particular.

The first of the glass cases contained a spotlight display of ancient warrior armors, honoring the age-old crusade for fairness and justice in the history of human existence. After that, the armors became retired uniforms, in memory of a more familiar crusade— an armored Bat suit, Batgirl's uniform (the fact that Batgirl was retired from the front lines was news to him, but seemed to make perfect sense in the jumbled continuity of Jason's mind); then there was Dick's old Robin suit, a Robin suit in a different color scheme he didn't quite recognize, and both beside the one uniform in the case that shouldn't belong. This wouldn't have been worth any notice to Jason if not for the fact that it was the uniform he wore every night when he was _beaten to death_ _by the Joker_.

It was his Robin suit.

Jason stood before the case— _the fucking memorial_ — his nose almost touching the glass and the hysterical white of his eyes reflected back at him. Something wasn't right here. This whole fucking world where Dick acted like a brother and Bruce tried to be something other than a cold, rational, emotionless mentor, wasn't right. And Jason needed to wake up.

 _Right_ _now_.

When he saw the apparition of an older face appear in the glass where _his_ Robin mask was hung, Jason nearly jumped out of his skin. He let loose the scream he'd been holding back by the skin of his teeth.

" _UUAAAAAGHHH!_ "

Jason threw himself away from the case like he'd been burnt, bounced into something solid like a _body_ , then spun around to flatten himself against the bronze plate that read _A Good Soldier._

The ghost stumbled back from the impact and shouted in surprise.

" _Unf—! Wha—!?_ "

" _DON'TFUCKWITHME—!_ "

" _Hey—Calm—!"_

 _"FUCKINGSHIT—!_ "

" _Could you sto—!_ "

" _SCREWYOU—!_ "

" _What the hell, you—?!_ "

Both ghost and boy shouted incoherently back and forth for an entire minute, neither side giving in until they both finally stopped out of breath, staring at each other, chests heaving from the shock.

"You _—_... _Jason?_..." The ghost caught his breath and cautiously inquired first in disbelief.

As Jason's heart beat slowed back to normal, he suddenly realized the uniform the ghost wore was similar to the unfamiliar Robin suit, but actually not the same. There was a stylized bird symbol on the chest as opposed to the 'R' found on a Robin uniform, and he wore a cowl that came to a point over his nose, like the beak of a bird.

"... Is that _you?_... Jason?" The young man (Jason finally realized the person in front of him was actually a living, breathing body and not an apparition), who probably was in his late teens, asked again and stepped forward with his arm outstretched as if to test that the boy in front of him was the _real_ ghost in the room and his hand would just pass through.

"... Who the hell are _you?_ " Blatantly ignoring the question, Jason glared and swatted the tentative hand away which made the young man flinch in surprise. He was starting to get annoyed by how everyone seemed to be walking on eggshells around him, even the (not) strangers.

"I'm..." the masked teen gulped, swallowing whatever name he had wanted to say and still obviously in shock at the sight of the boy standing in the middle of the cave.

With a shake of his head, he finally shook off his hesitation and amended himself. "You don't belong here," he stated.

"Funny, I was just about to tell you the same thing, sherlock."

"No, you don't get it, Jason." The young man shook his head and his voice dropped another level, exhuding as much seriousness as possible. "You shouldn't _be here_. This is a mistake. Bruce, what have you done?" he whispered that last sentence more to himself than Jason, but the urgency in his voice wasn't lost on the younger boy. Jason wasn't sure what to say to that and the tension rolling off the masked youth in waves was putting him on edge.

"I need to get you out of here. We need to fix this. Come with me." The older boy took a hold of Jason's elbow before he could protest and started pulling him over to the vehicle lot.

Jason struggled against the youth's strong grip. "Hey, let go, _shitface_ — _Hey!_ " He kicked out at the older boy's knee, effectively making him trip, but he recovered quickly and nabbed Jason's collar before he could escape. After a short scuffle of Jason retaliating with some well-aimed punches and kicks, the teen had Jason pinned to the floor in a headlock.

"Enough already! I'm trying to help you, Jason!" He grunted from the effort of pinning the struggling boy.

"That's what everyone says, Replacement. And you have a shitty way of showing it!" Jason choked back.

"Wait, what did you just say?"

"That everyone thinks you're an ass-hole? 'Cause y'know it's true."

"Oh, s _hut up_ Jason, and answer my question!"

"Wow, that made _no_ _sense_ at all. Do ya' want me to shut my trap or not?"

" _Jason!_ "

" _What_ , _Replacement?_ "

"There! You said it again."

"What? _'Replacement'_?"

They both paused in their struggling as the arm around Jason's neck warily loosened its hold on him and Jason stopped jabbing his elbow into the other boy's ribs.

"Do you... know who I am?" The costumed teen asked carefully, rising to his feet and offering his hand to help Jason up as well. Jason ignored the hand and pushed himself off the floor, pointedly dusting himself off.

"My nanny, obviously. Since the butler's upstairs," Jason shrugged. And that seemed to push the other boy over the edge as he crossed his arms and let out a strangled grunt, probably resisting the urge to punch himself or his bratty companion, or both. Jason took the hint and raised his hands in an attempt to placate him.

"Okay, okay, I'll play nice. You obviously know who _I_ am, but I sure as hell don't know who _you_ are."

"Then why did you call me _'Replacement'?_ "

"Because..." Jason opened his mouth, the words he wanted to say hanging off the tip of his tongue like a song he could hum along to, but couldn't remember the name of no matter how hard he tugged on the fishing line, cast out into his memory. He may have said otherwise, but his conscience was telling him he _knew_ this person. He was a _replacement_. _Replacement, replacement, replacement—whose replacement?_

 _Mine._

That possibility gnawed at him like an itch on the inside of his skull he couldn't reach (and itched uncomfortably close to the craziness chained to the back of his head). Being a homeless delinquent raised in the gutter of Gotham taught him how to use his words like weapons, so somehow finding himself speechless before such a simple question that he knew the answer to, _but really shouldn't_ , distressed him beyond belief.

Just then, there was the faint groan of the wall at the top of the staircase swinging open, followed by the muffled echo of footsteps.

"It's all right, Jason, just breathe. You don't have to answer that question," the taller boy said quickly, seeing the frenzied confusion on the other boy's face. He lay a steady hand on his shoulder. "Just clear your head and look at me—you _know_ me. Do you believe that?" He asked.

The footsteps were closer now, and there was a relieved cry of, "Jason!" that sounded like Dick, at the other end of the gallery. Then his voice suddenly dropped an octave in alarm. "Red Robin, _what do you think you're doing?_ "

Jason looked up at the masked face, the serious, thin line of the jaw and he somehow knew the mop of hair underneath the cowl was black, the eyes hidden behind the lenses were blue. And that's when it clicked—Red Robin. The _third_ Robin. Timothy Drake. The realization hit him harder than any thug, father, or clown with a crowbar could, and Jason reeled from the wave of bitterness and betrayal that came with it.

Dick had leapt off the upper landing and was sprinting past the _Good Soldier_ case now, only several strides away.

Before the deranged anger seeping through the cracks in his mental walls could make him change his mind, he nodded his head.

As soon as his chin dipped in acknowledgement, Tim grabbed the other boy and leaped unceremoniously onto one of the motorcycles. Jason scrambled upright in the seat behind him and had barely secured his arms around Tim's waist before the bike lurched forward. Dick jumped at them at that same moment, and Jason watched as if in slow motion where Dick, in mid-leap, had his fingers just about to grasp his arm—and then he was gone in a screech of tires and rush of wind.

* * *

They were speeding East through uptown Gotham when Jason finally overcame his motion sickness enough to reach up and try to strangle Tim. Tim was obviously less than pleased.

"Can you at least wait until _after_ we've stopped moving to try and kill me?" He garbled as the motorcycle swerved dangerously side to side in their struggling and oncoming traffic blared their car horns indignantly at them. Jason was still levelheaded enough to know that ending up roadkill on this little excursion was a bad idea, so he settled for seething impatiently in his seat while attempting to squeeze the air out of the other boy's lungs.

Between steering the motor bike at over eighty miles per hour through traffic-congested streets, prying open the bike's side-mounted radiator to remove the transmitter, picking through his uniform for _more_ transmitters, and suffocating under the surprisingly strong bear-hug of the kid he was kidnapping, Red Robin figured he was doing a pretty good job.

 _"Red Robin. Desist and return t—"_

Tim ripped the earpiece out of his cowl, crushed it in his palm and tossed it over his shoulder along with his collection of blinking trackers.

After ditching the transmitters, the pair spent another hour riding through several narrow alleyways, a skatepark, making a loop around Gotham Stadium and cruising through midtown until Tim finally concluded it was safe enough to make a pit stop so he could pry the angry little fingers from his suit and actually start breathing again. And it just so happened that the corner they stopped at was home to one of the best chilli dog stands in town. Needless to say, coaxing Jason to eat a chilli dog rather than attempting to murder his kidnapper was as easy as two bucks out of his pocket. _If only coaxing supervillains to the side of justice was this easy_ , Tim mentally sighed.

Once they were on the road again, Red Robin picked the busiest route out of Gotham heading northwards — he hoped to lose his pursuers in the traffic while taking advantage of the motorcycle's maneuverability (because outrunning the Batmobile in any kind of land vehicle was definitely not an option and luckily the Batwing was currently parked on the roof of Titans Tower with the _other_ Robin). It was a long stretch, but Red Robin crossed his fingers for the mess of vehicles along the expansive bridge to disguise their retreating forms from the vigilant street cameras. He weaved in and out between the congested cars, one time even hopping up onto the guardrail to avoid an angry driver, but they came out the other end of the bridge unscathed, and so continued on their way.

Several miles outside of Gotham, the small suburbs and townships passed by in a blur on the deserted highway. Just when he thought they were safely off the grid, Red Robin's sharp ears picked up the distant telltale revving of the Batmobile's engine. Cursing under his breath, he regarded the thick wall of trees passing by on either side of the road and quickly calculated his next course of action, planning a new route to their destination.

He silently prayed that the kid latched onto his back could keep the chilli dog in his stomach.

* * *

Jason's head disappeared into the overgrown grass for the umpteenth time as he puked up the digested remains of his beloved chilli dog, feeling a pang of regret at the loss.

When he finally lifted his head, a now cape-less Red Robin handed him a towel for his troubles (the discarded cape was safely buried several feet away along with the other half of the regurgitated chilli dog). Jason snatched the towel without a word of thanks, but Tim didn't seem to mind. On the contrary, Jason could've sworn that he looked almost sympathetic, if that reserved angle of his lips and unguarded slump of his shoulders were any indicator.

The older boy opened his mouth to finally say something, but Jason beat him to it.

"So what now?" he asked.

Tim answered immediately, "To the Airport. We're going to meet up with your team in New York."

" _My_ team...?"

"I'm not talking about the Titans. I just sent an encrypted message to Roy and Koriand'r to meet us at one of my safe-houses in Manhattan."

When Jason's face remained neutral, uncomprehending of everything he'd just said, Tim was suddenly reminded of the problem at hand. In the frantic escape they had made from the claws of the bat, he had pushed the issue aside in favor of securing their escape route first and foremost. But, now he was faced with a boy that shouldn't have been a boy (shouldn't have had an abusive childhood, shouldn't have died trying to save his own mother, shouldn't have _killed_ others, or tried to kill _them —_ but still shouldn't have deserved _this_ ) and he wasn't sure whether he should just drop the subject out of empathy or interrogate like the good detective he was supposed to be. In the end, there were simply too many questions that demanded answers, thus his rational side won over, as it usually did with him.

"Before we go any further," he asked, pulling off his cowl. He caught Jason's wary eyes with his own. "I want to know what you remember, Jason. Anything— who you are, your favorite things, what you were doing last month to a year ago— and especially, what you know about _us_. You need to give me solid proof, something only _Jason_ would know. If you can understand why, then there's no need for me to explain what we're doing here."

As Jason sat back on his haunches, he regarded the rainless, gray, overcast sky above him and let his memories (his _not_ -nightmares) wash over him.

Gradually, he felt the fuzzy, broken thoughts piece together in a sporadic mosaic that made perfect sense to him. He understood it with such sudden clarity that the sharpness of the truth stung clean like a blade to his skin.

But just because Jason understood, didn't mean he was happy about it.

With each piece of himself he listed off (facts, not fiction)—Jason Peter Todd, _nineteen_ not _nine_ , born on this date, died on that date, _raised from the grave_ God-knows-when by a ripple through space and time, _Talia Al'Ghul_ , chilli dogs and Neapolitan ice cream, stole some important tires at twelve, beaten and blown to bits with his misguided sense of filial compassion at fifteen, came back and knew better of the fucked up world as the _Red Hood_ to give himself a purpose _—_ he could feel the walls holding back all the raw anger and resentment being chipped away until there was nothing but the _compulsions_ that he needed like a starved animal, starved by the unfairness of it all.

He didn't realize he was sobbing, laughing, at the pathetic existence he was living until Tim Drake, the genius Robin who was better than him in every comparable way, who met everyone's expectations and replaced him as easy as a vote between life or death, _Tim_ or _Jason_ — _that_ Robin, placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, but Jason knew he didn't mean it. Because the number of times he had tried to kill this pretend Robin, his replacement, he had meant it (and not just dreamt the anger, the rage and felt the utter rejection). If Tim was anything less than the pessimist that he is, he would have left Jason in that illusion, surrounded by his happily adopted family that cared enough to pretend that they did.

But of course Tim wasn't. In the end, they both knew he didn't belong here. As long as he stayed, he would always be an obligation, a basket case that needed behavioural correction, a stain on an otherwise perfect record.

So Jason swore in that moment he would laugh and cry out every ounce of regret he had for the life he was never meant to have.

Then, maybe he could finally stop trying to fake his own happiness. He wasn't a fucking charity case.

 _He wasn't_.

* * *

Several miles away, on the lonesome strip of highway where the two Robins had taken a short-cut, a red pick-up truck meandered its way down the road while the Batmobile soared past in a blur of wheels and nitrous exhaust. The driver, most likely a Gothamite by his lack of surprise to the intimidating sight of the Batman in action, was lazily leaning one elbow on his open window with one hand on the wheel as the radio blared some garish country music. With a whir of static, the music suddenly stopped and a news anchorwoman's voice crackled up from the dashboard.

 _"We interrupt your regular programming for an important update on the escalating human trafficking kidnappings that has shaken the world over the course of the past two weeks. Sam Amberly is reporting live from the JLA headquarters in Washington where leaders of the League and representatives of Interpol gave a public announcement earlier today on the current state of the situation. Over to you, Sam."_

 _"Thank you, Sandy. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Peace Prize winner and prominent leader of the de-militarization movement, Ms. Marina Ghadi, was reported missing by her close associates, sending the global community into chaos. In light of these events, just moments ago, Superman gave a statement at the Pentagon in address to the people worldwide, calling for a united front between the world leaders. Here is an excerpt from his speech."_

— _... The Justice League is putting the missing persons at the top of their priorities. Supervillain activity is currently at an all time low but by no means are we eliminating the possibility of their involvement. If anything, the JLA will be investigating into every criminal factor in cooperation with Interpol and the United Nations to save innocent lives and return them to their families as quickly as possible..._ —

 _"Other prominent members of the League present include Wonder Woman, Aquaman, Cyborg, The Flash, Green Arrow, Black Canary, Red Tornado, Hawkgirl and Green Lantern, to name a few. If you're wondering if this list is missing one, crucial member who may be the key to solving these mysterious disappearances, the World's Greatest Detective was surprisingly absent from today's address. One can only hope this is a sign that a plan is already in the works and it won't be long until our loved ones are home once again, safe and sound. Back to you, Sandy."_

* * *

 **A/N:** Wish I could add more tags to this story, because there is definitely a mystery behind all these happenings. Although I feel like I could rewrite and/or add some more details to these chapters, I've decided to only edit and leave the story as is since I'm pretty limited in my free time at the moment. Let me know what you guys think in the reviews!

Cheers


	4. A Salvaged Bridge

**Chapter 4 - A Salvaged Bridge**

"Bruce, you can't keep doing this."

After nearly an hour of one-sided conversation and attempts at a productive discussion over the other man's unhealthy practice of ( _literally_ ) brooding in his cave, the only response the blue-and-red clad superhero on the screen achieved for his hard work was a disgruntled, "Hm."

There was an audible sigh and a shift in the video chat window, but Bruce didn't bother sparing the other man even a glance of recognition. He was suited up in the familiar uniform of the Batman with the cowl removed as his eyes scanned the patchwork of video feeds on the giant screen before him with intense focus. The tiny rectangle that was pushed aside to the very top corner of the gigantic supercomputer screen, in which the kryptonian superhero's face was framed, spoke volumes on exactly how much value the Batman placed on his supposed friend's opinion on the matter.

Not one to be dissuaded, the supposed friend kept pushing. "I know how much you hate catering to the media, but of all the meetings and missions you've been absent from for the past month, I wasn't expecting you of all people to ignore the problem at hand, even convincing J'onn off the case as well. The Bruce Wayne I know wouldn't ignore people in need so selfishly like this."

"Who says Bruce Wayne is the man behind the mask?" Bruce challenged with mock intent, like he hadn't had this conversation before.

"I'm serious, Bruce..."

"So am I."

" _Bruce_."

"Clark."

There was another groan of exasperation and a string of frustrated mumbles, while in the background there was a distant shout of, _Hey, is that Bats on the line? Tell him he still owes me a year's supply of chicken wizzies for stopping that hurricane in less than twenty seconds last spring. The speed force doesn't feed itself, ya' know?_ And that only drew another disgruntled sigh from Superman.

Luckily for the man of steel, The Martian Manhunter decided to materialize behind Batman at that moment and save him from another grueling hour of stonewalled conversation (or total lack thereof). The martian was disguised in his "John Jones" persona, wearing a brown trench coat and lightly tanned skin.

"I apologize for my absence from the conference earlier today, Superman. Batman may have requested my assistance, but I came of my own volition," J'onn solemnly cut in. The air around him rippled and he was suddenly standing in his natural alien appearance of green skin and red eyes.

Clark took a moment to process J'onn's words. The impossibly grim, stubborn, antisocial vigilante of Gotham City calling in favors from a teammate? Now that was something you don't see everyday. Clark visibly glanced over his shoulder and did a quick scan of the Earth through the Watchtower bay windows to make sure he was in the right dimension and hadn't been sucked into an alternate universe when he wasn't paying attention.

J'onn raised an eyebrow at him and it was Bruce's turn to heave a sigh in resignation.

The billionaire turned to the martian. "No, this is my fault, J'onn," he explained. "I should have known better than to ask for help with a personal matter from a colleague." He rubbed his face tiredly with one hand and leaned back in his chair.

J'onn gripped the man's shoulder in understanding. "As I said, it was my decision. I am glad you came to me for help, as a friend," he replied.

Picking up on the (more than usual) solemn tension on the other side of the screen, Clark suddenly sensed that there was more to the story behind his friend's stony facade than just his usual brooding, introverted self. For the first time since Bruce had answered the video call, Clark asked, "Is something wrong, Bruce?"

The man in question stiffened imperceptibly in his chair and his eyes subtly hardened when he finally looked Clark in the eye through the screen. Clark had known the man under the cowl for far longer than any other superhero, so he could say with at least twice as much confidence than anyone else (which actually wasn't a very impressive margin, but he took what he could get) that Bruce was obviously not dealing very well with whatever burdens he was currently carrying on his shoulders.

J'onn notably remained silent, but he hadn't removed his hand from Bruce's shoulder as a sign of encouragement.

Bruce, on his part, glared at both of them in turn, not budging an inch.

Clark heaved another heavy sigh, tiredly massaging his temples and tried again. "Bruce, you _need_ to tell me what's going on. The world is facing a crisis, the League is readying to go to war on terrorism, and you've been holed up in Gotham for almost two months now," Clark swallowed his frustration and softened his tone. "I know you wouldn't have disappeared on us without a good reason. And you know that you can count on me if you ever need help." _Not that you would ever ask for it,_ Clark didn't say.

But Clark's words must have somehow gotten through to Bruce, as the Batman's harsh appearance seemed to slowly melt away until all that was left were the weary lines of a troubled man. It was a sign of absolute trust that Bruce allowed this vulnerable side of himself to show through to them, the human haunted by the tragedies of his family and tormented by the dark side of human nature. Clark silently vowed not to take this moment for granted.

When Bruce next opened his mouth, the truth was far from what Clark was expecting— because nothing less than a conspiracy threat to peace in the universe, a mass prison breakout from Arkham and Blackgate, or of course, the _Joker_ , could occupy the Batman's attention so completely— but he certainly wasn't prepared when Bruce _finally_ said—

"... Jason was here. At the manor. For the last few weeks."

"You mean your—?"

"Yes."

Clark paused, a little stumped at what to make of this new development. He voiced carefully, "... I don't think I'm reading the atmosphere correctly then, because I would assume having your lost son finally home and not out in the world causing havoc is a good thing. And I'm happy for you if that's the case, but..."

"My _nine-year-old_ adopted son was here, Clark. The Jason that I found was _nine years old,_ " Bruce pointedly emphasized, trying to keep his voice under control, to get his comrade to realize the significance of the issue and his conflicted feelings in the matter all in one breath.

And even at forty-thousand kilometers above his stubborn friend's head, up in the reaches of space, Superman felt the importance of this sudden revelation hit him _hard_ , like a blow from a kryptonite-knuckled fist.

When you're a super-powered household name throughout the universe and a prominent member of a superhero community including meta-humans, magic users, and aliens alike, you tend to find yourself in phenomenal situations on a weekly basis and learn to take them in stride. And compared to an army of sentient robots, or a world inhabited by talking animals, reverse-aging and cloning were definitely near the bottom on Clark's list of weird things that could happen (Superboy was a clone afterall, so he was in no position to argue otherwise). But for it to happen to the Robin who was killed, the Robin who was raised from the grave with a vengeance, the Robin that few others knew the Batman considered his greatest failure? A touchy subject like this was on a whole other level of trouble that couldn't be fixed with a strong arm, or heat vision, or some mathematical algorithm.

For the rare individuals who actually knew _something_ about the topic of Jason Todd—the boy that should have been a lot of things, but died a lonely, painful, death at the hands of the Joker before he'd even outgrown the nest—they knew it was nothing less than an emotional minefield for the Bats and their patriarch; a cautionary tale of mistakes, poor life choices, and a revival gone horribly wrong in the form of a homicidal, Lazarus-crazed zombie. Clark knew he would have to tread carefully, so he chose to gloss over the details (since he knew Bruce wouldn't elaborate anyways) and went straight to the heart of the problem.

"What happened?"

As the kryptonian would soon find out, Bruce's problems (and his own) may not be as easy as a three-minute monologue over a video call that was already long past its per-call limit in minutes.

Superman definitely wasn't looking forward to the JLA's service bill next month.

* * *

It had been nearly half a year since an agent of the Bat family had last had any contact with their ambiguous, occasional ally-sometimes-enemy, the Red Hood.

The last one to see him in person would have been Black Bat, when the walking armory of a man sniped her information source, a Triad crime lord and disappeared into the depths of Hong Kong without a single word of "You're welcome," or "Sorry for the dead body. I'll make it up to you someday." Black Bat was unimpressed to say the least, and conveyed as much to her brother, Red Robin, who took on the tedious task of hunting down their rebellious, undead sibling.

Two weeks passed since the investigation started and still no sign of the elusive man. It was suspicious for sure, even knowing the possibility that he could easily be lounging on a beach somewhere with his teammates, the Outlaws, drinking tequilas all day. But, Red Robin had worked with the Red Hood before on several occasions, knew how he operated, and assassinations of relatively harmless figurehead gang lords didn't quite fit the bill on his MO.

Thus, Red Robin soon left Gotham to track down the Outlaws while Batman and his allies continued their own investigations into a new force in the international black market dealing with human trafficking. Batman and Robin got their chance to gather some potentially solid evidence when rumors of a Reefer shipment of frozen, perishable foods from Malaysia was passing through cities down the Atlantic coast, Gotham included.

By all appearances, the ship was a typical cargo ship legally carrying its staple meats, fish, and fruits, and had passed all border inspections thus far. So what made this freighter so suspicious? It certainly wouldn't have raised any red flags if the very same ship had not gone missing years prior in the Malacca Straits, supposedly pillaged and sunk by pirates.

The ship sailed under a new identity now, but as Robin wordlessly pointed out to Batman as the duo were grappling up the side, the hull had been painted over much more recently. A quick scrape off of the newly christened name revealed the weathered lettering of the ship's true identity.

Batman and Robin slipped over the outer decks quietly with the occasional watchmen (armed with rifles, of course) obliviously doing their rounds, but the interior was unsurprisingly swarming with armed guards. Needless to say, Batman and his partner efficiently took down the soldiers in silence and continued deeper into the depths of the carrier. Batman had expected a five minute window before the men realized what was going on with missed check-ins and the zip-tied bodies, so by the time the alarm was blaring the pair had already made it to the lower storage levels. What they found made Robin's blood boil.

Hundreds of people, old and young, huddled together and shackled like prisoners, thankfully clothed and apparently unharmed, filling up the large, expansive space from side to side over two football fields in length. There wasn't any doubt that these were a fraction of the missing people reported from various parts of the world, passing right over Gotham's doorstep.

Having sent an alert to Commissioner Gordon and the harbor police the moment the missing people were found, Batman and Robin quickly went about freeing the civilians and securing a safe escape route for them. The Batmobile was remotely positioned to shoot off an evacuation chute right at the makeshift opening that Batman had carved out with a laser cutter and Robin went ahead first to secure the harborside of any remaining henchmen alerted to the commotion. Just as the civilians were given the signal to make their escape, the bulkhead doors shoved open. However, Batman was ready for them. He pounced from out of the shadows above before any of the gunmen could take a single step into the cargo area. Shots and shouts were fired harmlessly at the shadows in a panic and echoed throughout the halls of the ship, but when all was said and done, Batman made quick work of the rest of the soldiers on-board before even the last evacuee had made their exit.

There were less than a dozen of them left for the two vigilantes to chaperon when a young woman approached him.

" _Kelelawar. Ada lantai lain..._ " There was another level, she said. At least, she believed there was. She was one of the kidnapped people who had been on the ship the longest, seen the henchman driving crates, smelling something foul like vomit and rotting meat...

Batman was gone the moment she, the last civilian, vaulted down the slide into the waiting arms of the paramedics. He found an industrial lift that took him deeper down into the ship, where only the ballast tank was left between him and the polluted depths of the harbor. The rancid smell grew stronger through the elevator shaft.

When the lift doors slid open, Batman almost retched from the overpowering stench of death that wafted through. The only light source came from the lift, which barely penetrated the pitch black surroundings, so he quickly took out a flashlight from his utility belt and ventured cautiously onto the floor. There was a consistent buzzing in the air and the beam from the flashlight revealed rows upon rows of crates surrounded by swarms of flies. Although Batman's compose remained steady in the face of what morbid truth could obviously be inside the crates, what he wasn't prepared for was the muffled sound of knocking.

 _Thunk. Thunk._

Batman warily followed the sounds (a quiet, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat...) to its source—a crate. Taking out a batarang, he moves automatically, plying open the edges of the crate's side, every fiber in his body pulled taut like a spring, ready to defend, attack, move, _something_.

With a loud groan and a sharp crack, the side fell open and Batman swiftly shifted out of the way as a mound of human bodies in various degrees of decomposition slumped across the floor as the flies scatter every which way.

Something shifted beneath the pile and Batman moved quickly, lifting the corpses aside until he pulled out a boy, covered in filth and blood, sickly pale and shaking fearfully in nothing but a ragged t-shirt.

Batman dropped his flashlight in shock when he swiveled the light to examine the boy's face—a face he'd thought would haunt him to his grave, immortalized in nothing but picture albums and his memory of happier times.

It was the face of Jason Todd.

Batman swore the boy could have been his adopted son's double, but much smaller, much _younger;_ the boy could have been real, if not for the fact that Jason had already been killed and reanimated as an adult, a cold-blooded killer who now called himself the Red Hood. In that moment, the Dark Knight struggled to catch his bearings, a war waging within himself to take control of the undeniable fact that Jason was no longer a Robin, or a son—he was a full grown man, an _enemy_ and a _criminal_ , and yet—

Every doubt, every rational thought affirming the impossibility of this boy's existence in his arms at that moment (like another moment in his life when he'd been too late to save another boy, nothing left but a deadweight in his arms), was scattered to the wind when the boy's blank eyes blinked up at him, widened in recognition and he whispered—

 _"... Br'ss...?"_

Kneeling there in shock, the Batman's mind processing numerous possibilities per second, Bruce felt himself move robotically, transfixed. His limbs were numb as he assessed the boy for injuries and carefully picked up his emaciated form in the folds of his cape. The boy didn't resist, simply gave him a tired smile.

"You made it in time," he rasped a little more clearly, _earnestly_ , like the whole world was right again. As if the gore and deathly atmosphere surrounding him was nothing but an illusion.

Outside, the paramedics, news reporters, and GCPD had their hands full with a few hundred displaced civilians and a ship full of international terrorists, with a morbid secret waiting for them to discover beneath the ship's hull. Batman easily slipped away unnoticed in the chaos with his charge in tow, signaling the batmobile and Robin to reconvene at an indistinct location south of the Narrows.

As Bruce grappled across the city with his fragile bundle tucked close against him, he had only one objective on his mind:

Home.

* * *

"I've run DNA profiles and obtained autopsy reports on some of the recovered bodies from the ship. So far, they are a one-hundred percent match for the missing individuals still currently unaccounted for. As for the boy, I've done the same testing and some observational assessments. The results thus far match the profile in my database, although I have yet to run an actual cognitive test with him."

Bruce reported stiffly, like a soldier giving his mission report.

Clark didn't believe his act for a second. He turned to the martian who had been silent throughout Bruce's entire story.

"So that's why you're there, J'onn? To give the boy a telepathic scan?"

Before J'onn could reply, Bruce answered, "Yes. J'onn was going to test him under the guise of a psychologist."

"Bruce, I know this must be hard for you, even if you won't admit it, but I hope you realize that it's highly unlikely that this boy is your Jason—"

"He isn't."

"—the chances of this being some sort of time paradox or involving magic are..." Clark trailed off when his brain caught up to the fact that his friend had spoken. "He's not?"

Bruce typed a few key words into the computer and brought up a recent report which Superman would be able to see on his screen in the Watchtower.

"I did a physical examination after I'd brought him back to the cave. I found recent indentations from where a subcutaneous microchip was embedded and forcibly removed. When Jason was young, he had scars from his time on the streets and signs of abuse including a healed fracture in his left radius. This boy... has none."

"A clone then. With a tracker."

"And programmed memories, possibly."

It didn't make any sense. The Red Hood goes missing around the same time that reports on missing civilians began to rise; several months later, a couple hundred of those missing people are found hostage on a ghost ship potentially carrying the bodies of now _murdered_ individuals; and the Batman finds a clone of his missing son amongst those rotting corpses...

Then the realization struck him. "The crates. You think those bodies were actually—the traffickers' objective was—then the missing humans may be still alive!" Clark exclaimed.

He may not know exactly why yet, but at least it was something, a part of the puzzle that was starting to feel like over five hundred apiece.

The Batman nodded his head patiently, as if his entire explanation thus far had been leading Superman to that very conclusion (it probably was). But then Bruce suddenly turned back to the console and resumed brooding over the video feeds from various traffic cameras across Gotham.

"I can't be entirely sure yet, given the corpses were already decomposed substantially. Any traces left of the cloning process that could have been matched to the boy have been destroyed at this point, and the GCPD forensics labs found no microchips, only lesions left behind by their removal. The only option left would be for J'onn to telepathically probe for memory tampering and mental triggers."

"So have you found anything, J'onn?"

"No, I have not had the chance to even meet the boy yet."

"But, then...?"

"Jason _was_ here, Clark." Bruce emphasized and gave him that look again that silently said, _the Earth is round, cats always land on their feet by controlling their moment of inertia, and two bodies exert a gravitational force on each other directly proportional to the product of their masses, so why doesn't anyone ever understand?_ "He was taken less than four hours ago and I'm currently in the middle of tracking down his kidnapper."

" _Who?_ " Clark wondered what kind of criminal would dare to steal something from right under the World's Greatest Detective's nose. However, if the original perpetrators were involved somehow, that would make the pursuit much easier and take them one step closer to saving the missing people.

Bruce's hawk-like gaze zeroed in on the tiny red motorcycle in one of the screens, zipping cautiously between lanes and taking cover behind cars as often as possible while enroute to Gotham Airport.

"Red Robin."


	5. Uncharted Arrivals

**Chapter 5 - Uncharted Arrivals**

For the hundredth time throughout the entire five hours of _boredom_ , Damian let out a very disgruntled, _-tt-_ , that made the poor businessman sitting nearby visibly flinch for the hundredth—no wait, make that _one-hundred-and-first_ time. The extra flinch came from when Damian suddenly fisted his cup, thankfully already empty of any liquids when the glass suddenly _cracked_.

Damian and his unfortunate companion were currently sitting in cushy leather chairs on a first-class flight across the United States from San Francisco to Gotham City, a civilian flight only reserved for the upper echelons of society and the privileged. The airline company prided themselves in providing one of the best travel services money can buy with a full course dining experience, spacious, automated massage chairs, high definition mini theaters, and bragging rights to a perfect five-star customer satisfaction rating. But, as the unfortunate passengers and attendants soon realized once the jet lifted off the runway five hours ago, the twelve-year-old heir to the Wayne fortune was apparently the most irritable, obstinate, and contrary exception to their usual clientele, all without muttering a single word. All he needed was to give an occasional scoff and gesture of overall discontent when anyone tried to approach him, and the world around him was thrown into hysterics.

The flight attendants were at a loss at what to do; their careers were at stake afterall, for leaving a passenger so dissatisfied—a dissatisfied _Wayne_ , no less. The captain had already announced the landing phase of the flight and their window of opportunity to pacify the most entitled middle schooler on the planet was growing smaller by the minute.

Meanwhile, Damian was brooding in typical Bat fashion as he stared out the window, oblivious to the company-wide crisis he was causing and thinking the freshly squeezed, pulp-less orange juice they served was excellent. It didn't help, however, that he was frustratingly reminded of the state he had found the Batwing in after leaving it unsupervised for _not even half a day_ before his colleagues—not teammates, or comrades, or God forbid, _friends_ —had somehow gotten silly string, cotton candy, and _toilet paper_ wrapped all over it, like some horrendously large, mummified bat.

He had been forced to leave the plane behind until it was cleaned to his satisfaction by the childish heroes his father and older brother insisted on him collaborating with (the West girl had abandoned ship the moment he stepped into the common room, leaving her teammates to face the wrath of an aggravated Robin and hours of consequential scrubbing ahead of them). Damian would have to apologize later to his father for the inconvenience, and perhaps replant the idea of getting him parts to build a Robin plane. One that was silly string-proof, of course.

Speaking of his father and older siblings, the elder members of the family were the reason for this entire trip in the first place. He wasn't expected back in Gotham for another week at most, but the closer the date of his return trip approached, the more agitated he became. He couldn't help feeling distraught over wondering how his father had dealt with the state of affairs they had uncovered before he'd left.

And by that point, he was practically going stir-crazy and such an unpleasant presence to be around (that is, according to the other Teen Titans—Damian personally thought he had been handling himself rather well since only fourteen training drones needed to be replaced rather than the usual twenty-five), thus, he'd decided to leave a week early and demand some answers on the matter in person. His bad mood was only soured even more when he'd been informed by Wayne Enterprises CEO, Lucius Fox, that his father's private jets in California were undergoing routine maintenance and wouldn't be in service for another day or two at least. Not being one for patience, Damian promptly chartered the quickest, classiest flight to Gotham his father's money could buy and hopped on the plane before anyone could say, _Holy highbrow, Batman!_

It was the cusp of evening when Damian's flight touched down on the tarmac and he exited the plane with a flock of attendants hovering behind him (he gave them all a generous tip just to make them stop). Promptly collecting what little baggage he had, Damian made his way through the terminal towards the exit where a limo was waiting to take him back to the manor.

Or at least that was the plan, until he heard a familiar voice hiss loudly, "Just because you _look_ like a little shit, doesn't mean you have to _act_ like one."

The young Wayne heir spun on his heel, fully prepared to shred apart whatever imbecile had dared to mock him—but the space behind him was empty. Damian immediately scanned the faces of the travel-goers passing him in the spacious lobby and his sharp eyes locked on a suspicious pair conversing in hushed angry whispers nearby. The young Robin took point behind a pillar.

"I'll take that as a compliment," the shorter of the two boys flippantly replied. There was something about him, his abrasive tone and threatening stance, that made Damian feel like shivving a dagger in his back.

Then Damian heard that familiar voice again—the teenager, glaring down at the younger from behind a pair of shades, and he realized who it was with a flash of agitation. _Drake_.

Tim flexed his fingers and threw his hands up, as if he would like nothing better than to just grab the kid and _flip_ him. " _Why me?_ " He griped. "Cass doesn't get cases like this. _Ever_. Fucking story of my life."

"Hey, I'm not exactly having a hoedown over here either," the boy exclaimed, pushing off his hood to better show his distaste. "I'm just saying, if _I_ were a teenaged, vigilante-kidnapper, _I_ wouldn't be using the private jet Daddy Warbucks bought me for Christmas to try and shake him off my tail. But, hey, I'm _not_ a teenaged, vigilante-kidnapper, so what do I know?"

The older boy wisely chose not to follow up on that remark (but he grunted his displeasure all the same). He reached out and harshly yanked the hood of the kid's sweater back over his head, then proceeded to march the kid towards the check-in block.

"I'd like to see _you_ try walking out of the Batman's city without him even _knowing_. I've got several contingencies for situations like these, but this was the best I could do on such short notice. If it makes you feel any better, this plane has the latest avionics platform and ESM sensors installed. All Wayne-tech, but I commissioned them myself. And if we're followed, we'll know."

"Oh, that makes me feel _so_ much better. I'd like to see what you've got up your sleeve when you actually have time on your hands to figure shit out."

"Keep walking, kid."

"Y'know this isn't going to work."

"Preaching to the choir."

Their voices were swallowed up by the undertones and murmuring of the terminal as Damian watched the two boys walk away in the other direction.

Honestly, he had half a mind to just leave Drake alone without confrontation, before any metaphorical gauntlets were thrown down between them. It wasn't his concern what the other Wayne heir was up to, and he certainly had no interest in the affairs of his least favorite adopted brother. So Damian probably would have let the matter drop altogether and be on his way—if he hadn't have caught a glimpse of the younger boy's frowning face when his hood slipped off.

His father's current investigations revolved around the _clone_ of Jason Todd, the one he'd found on the freighter that night, now nearly two months ago. It was that very same clone that was the root of Damian's current objective, the one now walking towards a security check point with Drake in tow and a flight attendant in the lead, most likely giving them a free by-pass courtesy of the name "Timothy Drake-Wayne."

Damian smirked as he moved to follow at a reasonable distance behind, already concocting several plans to slip past the security guards and sneak onto the plane.

It seems his initiative in coming back to Gotham was paying off rather nicely. Who says patience is a virtue?

(He'd have to tell Grayson off for trying to teach him such an ineffectual skill in the first place).

As Damian smoothly fell into the lineup of passengers waiting to pass through the checkpoint, he noticed several more security guards making their way over from the other side of the barrier, making a beeline for the unruly pair conversing with the airport officials. However, these men certainly weren't your average surveillance guards. The uniform was right, but the body language was all wrong—stiff, mechanical and efficient, no slacking movements in their strides. Soldiers.

Damian slowly reached into his duffel bag, just in case...

And without warning, the clone landed a hard kick to the groin of the security guard in front of him and bolted out into the crowd.

" _Hey! Hold it right there!_ " The soldiers in disguise had dropped all pretense and were shoving people out of the way as they hurtled towards the gate to give chase.

At the same time that Tim delivered a drop kick to one of the passing pursuers, Damian hurled several smoke pellets at the remaining chasers, sending the the civilians into a rush of screams and chaos. Both boys leapt into the midst of the confused guards, fists and legs hitting their marks and flooring two soldiers simultaneously.

One of the soldiers managed to radio in a message between his choking coughs. "Charlie to Alpha, we have a code black. Target has fled and we have several unknown attackers on us. Requesting reinforcements and immediate civilian evac of the premis—"

Damian leapt through the smoke and nailed the man in the temple with a roundhouse kick, effectively knocking him out.

The radio on the man's shoulder buzzed in response.

 _-Copy that, Charlie. Sending in delta team and activating airport evac protocols.-_

"- _Tt-_ ," Damian scoffed in annoyance as a loud siren began to blare overhead of the fleeing crowd.

A sudden crash behind him, audible above the wailing alarms, made the Son of the Bat turn just in time to see Tim on top of another soldier on the crushed remains of the X-Ray scanner, knocking him unconscious with one hard swing of his retracted Bo staff.

"Your clumsy handling of the situation is appalling as usual, Drake," Damian loudly mocked above the wail of the alarm as the smoke slowly cleared and Tim stalked up to him.

"None of your business, Demon brat. What're you doing here?" Tim shot him a dubious glare, equally adverse to his younger sibling's untimely appearance.

Damian crossed his arms defensively and answered, "To clean up after your blunder and take the clone back under our custody, of course."

" _Jason_ stays with me. Bruce and Dick may deny it, but they're too emotionally invested to handle this case, so I'm taking it off their hands."

The younger boy wrinkled his nose in offense. "Grayson may be compromised by his foolish sense of guilt and obligation, but Father certainly is not."

"Then you obviously don't know him well enough." Tim unzipped his backpack and opened the secret compartment where his gear and uniform was stashed. "I'm going after him. And _you_ will keep your annoying, little pug-nose out of my business," Tim retorted as he picked a blind spot in the security cameras' sights and started quickly changing.

Damian huffed, ignoring the insult and slipping away between the thinning slew of evacuating civilians to find his own camera blind spot. "For once, I agree, Drake. To the victor go the spoils."

And when all was said and done, Damian would make sure _he_ came out the victor.

* * *

Gotham International Airport was a deluge of civilians and officers, packed elbow-to-elbow on the expansive parking lot outside the terminals.

Whatever had triggered the evacuation, Nightwing was grateful for the distraction as he maneuvered his motorcycle around to the service and hangar gate entrance. From there, he could continue via the outdoor service lanes towards the terminals where Jason and Tim were last seen on the video feeds. He was hoping to cut them off before they boarded a flight to _who-knows-where._

Nightwing slipped like a shadow between the buildings, steadily making his way across the extensive concreted area. With nothing to occupy his immediate attention, he found he could no longer drown out that nagging voice at the back of his mind loudly proclaiming what he wasn't brave enough to admit since he turned up at Wayne manor at Bruce's request—that he was an idiot for thinking he could miraculously fix a relationship that never really existed in the first place; that he shouldn't have went along with Bruce's complicated plans, ignoring how messed up this whole ordeal actually was; that Dick had forgotten about a time when Jason could have become something more than the discredited things they labeled him as. He could have been a friend, a brother, a _son._

Sure, there were a lot of things that Dick could only speculate on about Jason (he could write a fifteen-page essay on the possibilities alone—in ten-point font, single-spaced lines, with minimal margins, of course, and he probably would still exceed his word count). He was grasping at straws by now, wondering how much of the Jason he'd seen through a biased lens was true, and how much of him was the boy he'd shared his favorite movies with only several days ago? Hindsight was always twenty-twenty, but too often than not, Dick found himself asking _what if?_ over the past few weeks he'd spent with the young clone—a clone of the man he'd never tried to understand, and perhaps had held a grudge against once upon a time, repulsed at the idea of an arrogant brat like him with a charged attitude and a penchant for getting himself into trouble wearing _his_ colors.

Sure, years ago he had tried to make friends with the fearless, impulsive street kid Bruce had taken in, but looking back, it was nothing but petulance and judgment on his part, subconscious expectations behind his attempts at brotherly interaction, a self-fulfilling prophecy where he tallied every bad choice, every slip-up he could find. As a kid born and bred on the crime-infested streets of Gotham, Jason had probably smelled the insincerity practically oozing off his skin. Maybe that was the reason why Jason had never warmed up to him in the first place. He couldn't blame him for that.

But, whatever bitter feelings they had for each other back then, it had been enough to throw oil on the hellfire of a bridge between him and Bruce at the time, and Dick had simply docked Jason off as another mistake that Bruce would regret sooner or later.

Dick couldn't have hated himself more than when he realized how careless that train of thought had been.

And maybe it was the shock of Jason suddenly dead and buried six feet deep by the time he'd even heard the news; or him and the Red Hood beating each other to a bloody pulp over Bruce's legacy, all the while wondering how he was somehow responsible for creating this revenge-seeking killer; but somewhere in between, Dick had come to realize how Jason, _never should have turned out this way._

The fact of the matter was that Jason had never had a proper role model in his life to emulate, and Dick wondered if that might have explained why he was so resistant to him and Bruce's influence in the first place. Adulthood and the responsibilities that came with it made him think about how Jason could have thrived under a different kind of counseling, just as Tim and Damian did— _especially_ Damian. And it was Dick's hindsight and the reality of the last two months that confirmed that Jason was practically a lamb compared to Damian's volatile years as a pretentious, ten-year-old assassin. That notion only furthered Dick's desperation to make things right in the eyes of a boy that wasn't really _their Jason_.

Was Nightwing punishing himself with the guilt, or subconsciously hoping for a second chance? Maybe he was making up excuses, in the only way you can when the person you're making excuses for was already dead (but Jason wasn't. _Not anymore_ , _not until we have proof,_ he had to keep reminding himself). Perhaps it didn't matter either way, since that same voice of reason in his mind understood that Tim was doing what they should have been doing months ago—that is, _solving the damn case so he can get over himself and they can move on with their goddamn lives._

 _You need to focus,_ Nightwing berated himself. _Get little Jason back first, convince Tim to work with us on the case, save the world,_ then _you can wallow in your guilt to your masochistic heart's content._

But that was easier said than done. By no means was Dick expecting this mission to be a walk through the park, what with Tim's stubbornness and ingenious plotting, but as he turned a corner around a scissor lift parking lot, he definitely wasn't expecting to be suddenly greeted out of nowhere by a platoon of guards armed with rifles, taser guns, grenades and other explosive goodies.

"What? You guys having a party without me?" He shrugged without missing a beat as a dozen lasers converged dead center on his chest. "Guess my invite got lost in the mail."

The Acrobat somersaulted through a rain of gunfire, taking the ensuing fight into close combat. With several rapid strikes of his eskrima sticks, he knocked out two in one go, then zapped another with three electrified jabs to the stomach. He smoothly dodged one soldier by flipping over his comrade, disarming the one beyond him with a flying sidekick to his chest, making him drop the flash grenade he was about to unpin.

He twirled into a spinning hook kick to the jaw of the man he'd used as a spring board and deftly scooped up the discarded flash grenade in one movement.

"Forgot to mention I'm not much of a raver, but I'm sure you guys can put this to good use." And with that, Nightwing popped the flashbang while turning up the shielding in his lenses.

The soldiers scattered in the few milliseconds before the grenade exploded in a blinding flash of light and a deafening _boom!_ By the time they recovered from the stun, the blue-striped vigilante was gone.

" _Spread out!_ There're more Bats where that one came from. Lock down the vicinity. No one else gets to the target before _we_ do, understood?"

A sharp salute of _Yes, sir!_ 's are given, then the unit are moving out over the concrete, sticking close to the vehicles and edge of the building.

From his vantage point over thirty feet above on top of a scissor lift's extended platform, Nightwing examines an ID card he'd swiped from one of the men below. Under his trained eye and upon close inspection, Dick could tell the card was a forgery—a very good one at that.

Nightwing tapped the commlink in his ear. "Oracle, can you look up a 'Sean MacPherson' in Airport Security's staff files? I'm about ninety-nine percent sure this ID is a fake, but whatever you can find out might shed some light on who we're dealing with."

 _-On it, Nightwing. Gotham International Airport uses fingerprint ID for some of their higher security areas, so you might want to scan the card for prints if there are any.-_

"Gotcha."

 _-And can you give me a status report?-_

"Right, sorry. An airport evac is in effect right now, but you already know about that, I'm sure. I just had a run in with some armed soldiers disguising themselves as airport security. I managed to ditch them, but I have a feeling they have something to do with Jason and the case."

 _-... We'll find out who they are soon enough. In the meantime, you should focus on retrieving Red Robin and the clone. We can't afford to divide ourselves over some domestic Bat dispute right now. Too many lives are at stake here.-_

"You're right, O, as always. Nightwing out."

Several miles away, in the penthouse suite of the Clocktower in downtown Gotham, Barbara Gordon watched her radio link with Nightwing switch back to standby on her screen. Nightwing wasn't listening anymore, but she whispered anyways, "You know I am, Dick. That's the only reason I'm doing this. For everyone's sakes." She typed in a command to the impressive set up of computers in front of her and a new communication link was established on the massive holo screen.

"This is Oracle. We have a slight complication and you'll need to head directly to Gotham Airport."

 _-Should've expec—that one. When is an—ing in our —ves not complicated?-_

The voice came out distorted by some rumbling static in the background, like the sound of air blowing into a microphone. Barbara brought up several live security feeds on her screen, each viewing activity in different parts of the airport.

"I can confirm that Nightwing and Red Robin are accounted for since the clone's disappearance. Robin is apparently on the scene as well, along with a welcoming party of armed men, affiliation unknown. What's your ETA?"

 _-At the —eed we're goin—at? Twent—tops, fifte —use our after burn—_

"By the look of things, you may not have fifteen minutes. You remember the location of the rendezvous point?"

 _-Wh—akes you think—won't just grab the —ackage and run?-_

"Because I have all the answers. Answers that you _need_ ," she warned. Oracle leaned forward on her elbows, as if she could glare down at her faceless conspirator through the screen. "Answers I haven't even told the Batman yet."

 _-...-_

Not waiting for their response, she said, "Let me know when you're enroute," and cut the connection.

* * *

In a corner of Oracle's large workspace, multiple video feeds from various news broadcasts and live security recordings scattered across the screen, casting ghostly flashes of light on the wall behind her and reflecting off the lenses of her glasses. One broadcast in particular was playing a seated interview between a reporter and a professional of some sort.

"Joining me today is Doctor Allen Parsman, emeritus professor of sociology at Gotham University. Doctor Parsman, thank you for coming."

"It's my pleasure to be here, Sandy."

"Doctor Parsman, as one of the leading sociologists of our generation, what is your view on the state of affairs currently plaguing the world? There's the alarming rate of missing persons all over the globe, the collapse of ecosystems in protected regions, and just recently, the WHO has announced the previously isolated incidents of Ebola in Bialya is on the verge of an outbreak. Would you say this is some kind of consequence of societal influences, such as global warming and recent political unrest in the Middle East? Can you provide us with some insight into these phenomena and tragic happenings?"

"Now, that's a very broad question with a very complex answer. To put it in layman's terms, you first have to look at society as something like a functional, living organism. Every culture, every country interacts with each other in intricate and very different ways, but each one is important to human society as a whole, much like the organs and organ systems in our bodies. If you can make an analogy between physiology and the context of human actions, then yes, civil war in the Middle East and parts of Eastern Africa have led to major desertification by construction of a literal 'No man's land' in the midst of the conflict. The loss of the world's major basins acting as climate regulators could also be what's caused the sudden reemergence of disease in nearby areas by a virus once thought to have been completely eradicated from existence. And even further, I believe cities along the coast of North America have already been warned of the Atlantic hurricane season being pushed forward several months early. But I digress, since climate change is not my area of expertise—the point I'm trying to get at is, that current events have a slow, but sure affect on society as a whole, and this has lead to a change in the world around us and our perceptions of what is 'normal'. In a society where our children are growing up under controversial concepts such as meta-humans and an existing community in other solar systems, it's understandable that we have come to a point of social unrest between the many social groups that exist across the globe. When we look at the big picture this way, things like social conflict and criminal acts, such as mass kidnappings by a particular group, don't seem so surprising after all."

"Can you expand on that idea? What could be a possible motive for this unknown group to commit these atrocities?"

"Consider this, if you will; the world is in the midst of a crisis, with modern warfare, sudden outbreaks of disease, the threat of natural disasters along the Atlantic Rim and multiple parts of Asia, Europe, and North America. From a social perspective, there are many possible reasons: religious views like the Apocalypse, or astrophysicists' views on solar activity and electromagnetic disturbances traveling past the Earth, even biologists' emphasis on climate change, pollution, and destruction of habitats—each of these may certainly be legitimate explanations for some of these current events, but none of these explain the _big picture_. What do these occurrences _mean to humans?_ It means a loss of homes and sense of security, a fear of sickness—of _death_. Even with a league of super heroes to protect us, there is no one in any time or universe that can change the most natural, essential fact of existence. That nothing lasts forever."

* * *

 **A/N:** Totally didn't mean to leave anyone hanging since the last chapter. Life obligations and what-not, which will delay updates for this story significantly, at least until mid/late summer. Sorry guys!


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